


In The Bleak Midwinter

by Scribblesinink (Scribbler)



Series: Awesome!Jakeverse (Jericho) [90]
Category: Jericho
Genre: Awesome!Jakeverse, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-15
Updated: 2010-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-08 00:30:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribbler/pseuds/Scribblesinink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During his posting to Columbus after the end of the Second Civil War, Beck unexpectedly runs into an old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Bleak Midwinter

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Tanaqui for helping hammer out the finer plot points, title suggestion, and betaing.

Beck stepped out into the cold from the warm lobby of the office building. The door swung shut behind him as he stopped at the top of the stoop to pull up the collar of his overcoat and jam his fur cap tighter on his head. It felt like it had grown even colder while he'd been inside for his meeting, and a fierce wind from the north was driving swirling snowflakes ahead of it. The cold seemed to have leached all color from the world: the dark and dreary skyscrapers of downtown Columbus hunkered like a giant's building blocks beneath a sky the color of lead. The street was almost deserted: most people apparently preferred to huddle around their heaters at home than venture out into the developing storm. The only dash of color in the otherwise bleak city was Old Glory, high on a flagpole across the street.

Beck took a moment to glance up at the flag flapping in the wind, and inhaled deeply. The cold air burned his lungs. He was a fool, he decided. He could've gone back to headquarters in the car with his aide. But the endless discussion inside had left him infuriated enough that he felt the need to clear his head and cool his temper; braving a burgeoning snow storm had seemed like a good cure. Because, honestly? Was this the new America for which he'd risked everything? That the people of Jericho had fought for, and those nameless troops in Texas and Oklahoma, and all up and down the Mississippi, had died for? Had they sacrificed all of that just so that wealthy corporations could get wealthier, and politicians still sell their souls and votes for campaign funds?

Beck discovered that merely thinking about it made him clench his jaw painfully tight. Shoving the thought aside, he started down the steps. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat, and his gloved fingers brushed against the folded envelope he'd stashed in there for safekeeping earlier that afternoon, just before leaving his office.

_Her letter._

If he were entirely honest, Beck admitted to himself, the letter from Heather might have something to do with his temper flaring the way it had. After all, it wasn't the first time he'd run into obstructionist bureaucrats and unwilling businessmen in the months since he'd been tasked with coordinating the reconstruction efforts. Though dealing with them irked him, he could usually manage to keep his calm.

But his emotions had been in turmoil ever since he'd instantly recognized the round, firm script of Heather's hand when the envelope was dropped on his desk in a pile of mail both personal and professional. Seeing it had filled him with both joy and dread: joy, because she _had_ written him back; dread over what she might write. The news hadn't been as bad as his worst fears, but reading her words had quickly made it clear she and Jake were still together. And she'd sounded happy. So, while he'd selfishly hoped she'd be telling him something different, he'd reminded himself that, as her friend, he should be pleased for her.

Easier said than done, though.

"Major?"

At first, Beck didn't respond—he'd stopped being a major a while ago—and he'd already reached the sidewalk, about to turn into the wind, when the woman's voice called again. "Major Beck?"

A little startled, Beck lifted his gaze, eyes watering with the cold, to see blue eyes peering back at him from the slit between the woman's heavy scarf drawn up high and her knitted hat pulled down low. Covered up as she was, he didn't recognize her. He dipped his head in her direction. "Ma'am?"

"Oh." She gave a quick laugh. "It's Trish." She raised a mittened hand to briefly pull the scarf down so he could see her face. "Trish Merrick."

He did recognize her now, of course, and a strange surge of warmth washed through him at seeing a familiar face. "Hello, Trish." He offered her a slight smile as she quickly dragged the scarf back up her face until it once more covered everything but her eyes. "How have things been with you?"

"Good, thank you." She shivered and hopped on the balls of her feet. "Though it's too cold here."

He nodded. "Yes it is." He wondered what she was doing in Columbus. From what he remembered, Trish had officially quit her job with J&amp;R after the war was over and gone out west somewhere: New Mexico or Arizona, he thought. Some place warm, at least. "When did you get to Ohio?"

"Just before Christmas." She gave another shudder and huddled deeper into her coat. "I'm working with the Organization for War Profiteering Reparations. We're trying to get people compensated for some of the abusive deals forced on them during the first reconstruction period. They needed someone to specifically help them deal with the new and not so improved J&amp;R."

She laughed wryly, and Beck offered a nod of understanding. Despite all the testimony during the hearings into the War, Jennings &amp; Rall had somehow managed to emerge mostly intact. Certainly, its top management had stepped down and were facing criminal charges, and the company had been forced to cut its ties with several subsidiaries, including Ravenwood. But at its core, J&amp;R was still the same. The knowledge was maddening, and Beck was glad there were groups like the one Trish had said she worked for that tried to keep the J&amp;Rs of the world in check.

"I'm sure you'll do a great job." Beck remembered breaking the truth to Trish about the attacks, showing her the evidence on Hawkins' laptop. She'd been very quick to understand the implications, and even quicker to make up her mind. It was something he'd always admired about her; it couldn't have been easy for her to see everything she'd believed in fall apart like that. And if not for Trish…. Without the stores she managed to liberate from the depot in Garden City, he reckoned those first few weeks of the siege, before they could restore Dale's smuggling contacts and find new routes through Hoffman's perimeter, would've been a lot harder.

She gave a shy shrug. "I'm trying."

There was an awkward silence while Beck tried to think of something else to say.

"Well," Trish cleared her throat and gestured with the thick manila envelope she held in her left hand, "I'm going to deliver this. But it was nice to see you."

"Yes, you too, Trish."

She brushed past him, hurrying up the steps and reaching for the door. "Trish?" Before he realized what he was doing, Beck had called out to her, and she turned around to peer back at him from under her hat. "If you have time, may I invite you for a cup of coffee?"

Trish's eyes widened a little. Then, though he couldn't see her mouth, Beck knew she smiled at him. "I'd like that. Just let me drop this off."

"Of course."

She disappeared inside. Beck waited on the sidewalk, his back turned against the wind, slapping his arms in an attempt to stay warm. What the heck was he doing? he wondered. Maybe the cold had addled his mind. Or maybe seeing Trish had made him long for a moment of Jericho. For all the hardships and uncertainties they'd faced, the year he'd spent in Kansas had been far less frustrating than the past eight months in Columbus.

Either way, it was a mistake. He should know better than to try and live in the past, and talking to Trish would only bring back memories he'd much rather not think about. He'd beg off as soon as she returned, he decided, concocting an excuse about some meeting he'd forgotten about and asking to take a raincheck. She'd understand, wouldn't she?

It didn't take Trish long to finish her business: five minutes after she'd gone inside, the door opened again and she reappeared. Beck turned at the sound, ready to make his apologies and saw she'd unwrapped her scarf in the heat inside. Her expression was full of expectancy: she looked as pleased to have met a friendly face as he'd felt. "So, Major, where are you taking me?"

Beck's excuse died on his lips; instead, he found himself suggesting, "There's a small coffee shop down the block." As soon as the words left his mouth, he frowned inwardly—that wasn't what he'd planned to say. But as he noticed how the glad smile lighted up Trish's face, the last of his misgivings faded. What harm could there be in sharing a cup of coffee with a pretty woman? It would certainly be more pleasant than the work that waited for him in his office back at headquarters.

The snowflakes were starting to stick, making the sidewalk slippery, and he offered her an arm for support. "Also, it's Lieutenant-Colonel now, not Major."

"That's great. Congratulations." She offered him a grin. "So they decided not to yell at you…?"

"Not exactly." Beck smiled back at her. "I assure you, there was plenty of yelling before they gave me the promotion."

Trish's chuckle accompanied them down the street to the shop, where it was warm and cosy, and the coffee was plentiful. And where, an hour later, Beck surprised himself again by arranging to meet Trish same time, same place the following week.


End file.
